


Escalation

by ElvenSemi



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Breathplay, Crossover, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Violence, Violent Sex, all of those fandom tags are completely accurate and I hate myself, crossunder more like, for anyone who came across this: i am sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 18:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12636606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenSemi/pseuds/ElvenSemi
Summary: What happens when I open kink prompts and then ask Unpretty for advice, aka The Crossunder From Hell, aka "An Obscure Spider-man Villain Fucks A Dragon Age OC in the Mass Effect World."I am told you don't have to be familiar with any of these things to enjoy it, but I feel like it would help.





	Escalation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unpretty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unpretty/gifts).



> If you'd like to know who Emma/you is, check out my work Keeping Secrets. If you'd like to know who Kraven the Hunter is, check out Squirrel Girl. If you'd like to know why, dear god, why, I can't help you. 
> 
> There's alt-text in the story, now with added you-can-actually-see-where-it-is. Sorry that this doesn't work on mobile.

"Emma… Emma. Emma!" 

You shift up groggily, then nearly screech when you’re presented with the horrifying visage of a demon, directly in front of you. A face, avian or reptilian or some Maker-fucked combination of the two. You manage not to scream or strike it as memories hit you in a rush. Right. Not a demon. A thing. An alien. A creature, from another world, and you’ve really no right to scream, because this is more his world than it is yours. 

You bite back your panic, cover it by rubbing your face, groaning. "The fuck." 

"C’mon, the Commander needs us on the surface." 

"What? No. Why? I’m terrible at that," you complain. You have no desire to shove yourself into one of those terrifying ’space suits’ and jettison off onto some shitty alien planet. It’s terrifying enough in this giant flying jar whipping through the air, or whatever happens when there’s no more air. You’re still foggy on all the details. 

"We need your 'firepower,'" your "comrade" says with a wink, and you scowl. 

Your magic had stayed with you through the horrifying magical accident that had torn you from your own home and planted you here. And everyone seemed incredibly used to it. Vaguely curious, at worst, and not even the really scary kind of curious. They just assumed your tendency to set things on fire when scared was a form of something called ’biotics’ and totally rolled with it. Overnight, one of your darkest secrets was blasé. 

"This sucks," you complain loudly as you stand. "I told you guys that I hate this, I dunno why--" 

"Awww, don’t fuss, your buddy is going too." You hesitate, and the Turian chuckles. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a xenophobe, but you hide from the human half of the crew too. C’mon." He grips you by your shoulders and steers you out of the door. "Let’s go see your boyfriend." 

"He’s not my--!" 

"Yeah, alright, sure, he’s just the handsome man who just so happens to be the only one you speak to on a regular basis. And he’s furry. You humans like that, right?" 

You’ve never bothered to correct them on their assumption of your humanity. The humans are weirded out by your ears, but the aliens just seem to assume it’s a natural variety. It makes you uncomfortable, but if there aren’t any elves here, the way there aren’t any Turians back home, it’s probably best to let them keep their assumptions. 

"And he’s got a nose that just keeps going!" 

"Please shut up, Garrus." 

\--

The mission is exactly as insane and terrifying and confusing as they always are. Everyone has some kind of ungodly weapon that shoots chunks of metal that are absolutely miserable to be hit by, and they all have barriers, _always_. But you’re getting plenty of sleep and unadulterated terror is a  good combat assistant. And it’s probably good for your stress levels when you can wrap your hands around some weird fucking alien’s neck and melt their weird fucking alien face off. 

Look, you’ve been on the verge of a mental break for a while now. If questionably motivated murder keeps you together, so be it. 

That had been a stressful situation to begin with, actually. You have a tendency to vanish in combat, a blessing and a curse. You much prefer not being the center of attention, but it often means that your own teammates lose track of you. Forget to keep an eye on the little waif sneaking around with fire and an omni-blade, which you’re still not as good with as your regular old dagger. 

They keep trying to give you a ’gun.’ You’re terrified of them, and so while you have a small pistol in your suit, you’ve yet to even draw it, preferring to just stick to setting things on fire. Even yourself, when necessary. 

But today, there was a hole in Garrus’ coverage, and a handful of mercenaries break through and get right up on top of you. One would be an issue--you’re not built for hand-to-hand combat on the best of days--but two plus a krogan? You’re fucked. 

You manage to grab the Krogan’s shotgun, melt the whole thing to rubbage before he can put a lot of very painful holes in you. He tries to fire anyway, and the resulting kickback knocks him back a few steps and sends you stumbling away, as well. That’s when the two humans start taking shots. The first few get absorbed by your barrier--or whatever it’s called here, it works similarly enough that it’s one of the few things you’re comfortable with--but you let out a bit of a shriek at the noise and flashing. You’ll never get used to being shot at. 

You have just enough time to throw a panicked bolt of fire at one; the Krogan has already recovered and looks pissed about his gun. You’re already bracing to try and run when something suddenly scoops you up from behind. You let out another alarmed shriek, but quickly realize that it’s your hirsute, human "friend." Kraven is the only one capable of keeping track of you on a battlefield, it seems. One second you’re on the ground, the next you’re in his arms, the next, you’re flying through the fucking air. 

Well. You suppose it’s one way to get you out of danger quickly. You see him quite literally _tackling_ the now-unarmed Krogan before you smash into another mercenary. One of those hideous goddamn Vorcha. Half out of your mind with fear and adrenaline, you wrap your hands around its neck and **burn.**

At least it wasn’t a Turian this time. The last time Garrus saw you fuck up a Turian as badly as you wanted to, he wouldn’t make eye contact with you for a week. 

On the way back to the ship, Kraven gives you a friendly smack on the back that nearly sends you flying off your feet. Frankly, if he were a foot taller and had horns, you’d feel like you were back home. 

Maybe _that’s_ the reason you tend to hover around him more than anyone else in the "crew" of the bizarre ship that’s become your flying home. A sense of familiarity. It’s a more comfortable possibility than many of the others--particularly the ones favored by  Garrus\--but you suspect the truth of the matter is just that he’s the one you can understand best. Despite his thick, unfamiliar accent. 

Everyone else’s speech seems peppered with words that are completely unintelligible to you. You have no idea if it’s an issue with the mildly horrifying automatic translation system they use--way to make your entire life pointless in one fell swoop--but you’re scared to ask in case it’ll somehow give you away. You’re not sure why you’re so worried about them finding you out… perhaps it’s simply instinct. Perhaps you simply don’t know how to function without secrets clutched close to your chest. Either way… 

" _Baba-ushki,_ would you like after-battle  tea?" Kraven suggests in his friendly, boisterous manner as you clamber back onto the ship, trying not to look as desperate as you are to be off of a planet whose air would probably kill you. 

"Baba-ushki" is a nickname for you, and one of many words you’re confused about the lack of inherent translation for. Like "Geth," "Eezo," "extranet" and a million others. You’ve never asked what it means, because you’re too worried that you’re already supposed to know. 

"Sure," you agree, instead of doing what you want to, which is bolting straight to your bed and hiding under the covers. Garrus gives you a long wink after he removes his own helmet. You pretend not to notice, and instead follow Kraven into the mess. You sink into a chair in the corner, back safely against a wall. You want to close your eyes. Your nerves are too on fire for you to actually manage it. 

You watch him as he idles in the kitchen, or what passes for it. You’re more than happy to let him prepare your tea for you. The two of you had first begun talking when he’d caught you out here at three in the morning, swearing up a storm--in six different languages, only some of which even seem to exist in this world--and trying to make tea with the utterly bewildering equipment here. You’ve since been shown the ropes more effectively, but you still hate using any of the weird technology in this place. You’re always worried you’ll do it extremely wrong and everyone will stare. It’s happened more than once. 

Watching him does a little to soothe your ragged nerves. He shed the top of his armor almost immediately--though you’re still clad in everything but your helmet--and is standing in the kitchen in little more than the kind of undershirt you wore back… home. There’s something intensely amusing about a man that large, with shoulders that broad, standing in a kitchen of any kind, making tea. You lean forward onto the table, a bit of tension leaving your rigid body as you watch the idle steps of tea-making in such an odd place. No fire stove, not even rune-magic, just some fucking thing with buttons that dispenses hot water. 

From where Kraven gets his tea, let alone his jam, is a mystery to you, one you’re scared to inquire into lest the answer be obvious. But you watch him spoon the jam into the hot tea and relax slightly more. You don’t know what kind of weird alien culture puts jam in their tea, but frankly it’s delicious, so you genuinely don’t care. It’s probably made from some weird alien fruit. You don’t think about it. 

"You are looking tense as a rabbit about to bolt, _baba-ushki_ !" Kraven declares as he approaches with two cups of tea. You stiffen before reminding yourself that he has no idea what that word means to you. Although it still might be an unkind observation, given that your ears are on proud display. You don’t wear your hair down any more than you used to. 

"I hate going onto the surface," you grumble. It’s a simple explanation. You just don’t like it. Oh, and also you haven’t gotten used to omni-blades yet, and guns terrify you, and every time you’re outside of the ship you’re thinking about the vacuum of space and shaking. "And I’m not fond of the fighting." 

"But you are so _good_ at it!" Kraven protests, and you snort. 

"Anyone with my skill set can be good at fighting. So long as I don’t run into a lot of inflammable aliens." It’s a lie, you’ve honed your skills excessively, though your magic ones a bit less than you might prefer. The amount of practice you’ve been able to get in is the only thing you like about this wretched world. Worlds. Whatever. 

"Nonsense!" he says, more boisterously than strictly necessary. Then again, he’s always about three steps more boisterous than you consider strictly necessary, or even reasonable. "I have known many who were born with great power, but never bothered to properly harness it. And no one is born into your skills with a knife," he adds, eyes twinkling in a way you recognize. 

A world, a ’galaxy,’ a ’universe’ away, and people are _always_ trying to catch you at shit you don’t want to be caught at. You glare at him over your tea. His grin only broadens. "You have the steely glare of a cornered lynx, _baba-ushki._ " 

"I’m not cornered, and I’m not a lynx," you reply darkly. "That’s just my face." 

"No? Perhaps you are like a rabbit after all?" 

" _Absolutely_ not." You might snarl the words. It’s slightly unintentional. He doesn’t know the connotation. 

"One must be one or the other, _baba-ushki._ " 

"Ah yes, the two genders, lynx and rabbit." 

Kraven tsks gently, waving his finger in the air. "Not lynx and rabbit. Predator or prey." This, he says with a broad grin, one that shows too many white teeth. Your fingers spasm tighter around your mug. 

"That’s not even remotely true," you say with a scowl. "Predator/prey is not a true dichotomy. Carnivores and omnivores get eaten all the time." 

"Then they were prey," he replies promptly. 

"And when they were eating other prey?" 

"Predators to things they ate, prey to the things that ate them," Kraven suggests, and you laugh. You can’t help it. He just says it so matter-of-factly. You think, briefly, that he’s perhaps joking--wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’s done--but… "You laugh," he says, not quite a question, but leaning towards it. 

"Should I not?" you say with a last chuckle. "I’m shit at telling when you’re joking, Kraven. You have a weird sense of humor." 

"Do I?" he says, as if wondering. "Perhaps there were other things you took as humor, which were not meant to be so." 

You blink, thinking back about some of the odd jokes he’s made… then have to clear your throat and rub your nose to brush away the flush rising to your cheeks. Given some of the things he’s joked about, it’s probably best not to consider that. Kraven is an attractive man, and you spend enough of your time together admiring his physique when he’s not looking. The last thing you need is to consider anything more. 

"Thanks for the rescue down there, by the way," you say, to change the subject entirely away from the subject of prey. He’s a fellow really into hunting, and you humor his weird tangents, but that one’s just creeping you out a little much for some reason. "I’m not much good in close combat." 

"You are very small, and Krogans are very large," Kraven agrees. "A cowardly thing, to feel the need to gang up on one so unassuming." 

You chuckle. Small. Unassuming. These are good things, things you want to be, or at least want to be mistaken for. Hearing them out loud relaxes you a little more. You lean back in your chair, take a long drink of tea, letting your eyes close, finally. Honestly, you’re tired to your bones. You barely ever sleep, as always, and after all that chaos… You could just… 

"Are you sleeping, _vhenan_?" 

You jolt physically in your chair, eyes flying open, staring wildly around. The only one there is Kraven, looking surprised at your sudden movement. "Wh-what?" you choke out. 

"I asked if you were falling asleep." 

"Oh…" you rub your face, no longer even slightly tired. "No, sorry, I was just resting my eyes. I’m not used to that kind of heavy exercise." 

"You’re sure to be in more physically demanding situations from here out. You should work on your stamina," Kraven observes. "I could help, if you wish." 

You snort. "What, in the gym with the man squad? With Grunt? No thanks." Kraven was very fond of the Krogan, but you find him creepy, as you do all the aliens… and pretty much everyone, actually. You don’t like the way Miranda watches you, and if you and Jack share more than five minutes together, you’re certain the two of you will wind up killing each other. Tali is probably the most normal one, save Kraven, and she’s some kind of weird squid in a suit or whatever, who even knows under all that… 

"There are other ways to gain strength besides fighting with young Grunt," Kraven advises, but you just shake your head. 

"Thanks, Kraven, but I think I prefer tea and counting on you to hurl me bodily out of danger." You always have, really. Not just him, but anyone; you’ve always been counting on other people to save you from fights you could win even without them. It should be easier now, just to let yourself kill, but you keep falling back on old habits. 

You’re out of your depth here, anyway. Your gaze falls to a window. Pinpricks of light, stars. Darkness. Little else. You fight a shudder, and tear your eyes away. 

"You have yet to remove your armor," Kraven observes, and you glance down at yourself, all black metal that doesn’t weigh as much as it should. 

"I like it," you lie. "Makes me feel--" Safe. "Strong." Liar. 

"You will not hear me complain," he says, lip quirking upwards in a grin. "You cut a fine figure in it." 

You laugh, an easy sound because it’s mostly fake. You’ve never cut any kind of figure in your life. "Sweet-talker. Are you about to ask me for a favor?" 

"If I did, would you say yes?" 

"Nope," you say easily, a practiced grin on your lips. It’s easy, with him, to sink into the familiar skin of someone you’ve been for years. You finish up the last of the tea in a gulp, then set the cup down on the table. "But thanks for the drink." 

\--

You’re up late, tooling around with the confusing and bewildering omni-tool you were given by Tali shortly after your arrival on the ship. She’d shown you a few of the basics, then sort of given up and handed you a manual written in a language you can’t read. 

It’s been a struggle. Even after you figure out how to set the default language to Orlesian, one of the few languages that seems to translate properly. 

You need a break. You hate all this tech, and you can only listen to codex audio recordings for so long before your brain starts to glaze over from too much new information. You’re unsure what time it is--sometime in the middle of what’s supposed to be your sleep cycle, you know that much. Most everyone’s sleep cycle, judging by the emptiness of the halls when you step out of your room. 

Groggily, you head town the boxy halls towards the mess hall. Something to drink. Something with a stimulant in it. Even if you can sleep without fear of discovery now, over a decade of self-induced insomnia has taken its toll on your habits. Plus, despite the eerie lack of spirits, you still have night terrors. 

It isn’t until you’re meandering back towards your room, cup of coffee in one hand, blearily trying to read on your omni-tool with the other, that you’re aware that you’re being followed. Your steps don’t hesitate at the realization, carrying you blithely on past your bedroom even as your mind races. Around a corner, stick tight to the wall, then--

As soon as they come around the corner, you tackle the asshole who was following you, omni-blade already formed and at the ready. You slam him up against the wall, draw your arm back, and--

" _Andraste’s tits_ , Kraven!" you exhale all at once, registering who it is that you grabbed and shoved and nearly stabbed. Again. And in that second, where you’ve released a bit of tension and lowered your stabbing arm, Kraven has pushed back, shoving _you_ against the wall beside where he’d been, pinning you in. He’s grinning in that stupid cheesy way, and you know he means no harm by it, but your heart is still racing. So instead of laughing it off, you drop down, slipping out from his grasp, and slide between his legs to get out from between him and the wall. He responds by stepping on your arm--not hard enough to hurt, but enough to piss you off, so you respond to _that_ by punching him in the back of the knee. 

It’s all very unnecessary and you’re glaring and panting by the time you manage a happy medium where neither of you are pinned to any walls. 

"Fucking _again,_ Kraven?" you hiss, voice low since most of the ship is asleep, even if you are in a corridor that only leads down to engineering. "What is this, like fifth time you’ve tried to scare me? It has literally never ended well!" 

"I have no idea what you mean, _baba-ushki,_ this has gone wonderfully," he replies with that stupid shit-eating grin of his, posture too casual and relaxed for someone you’d just been half-sparring with. 

" _Kraven._ " You rub your non-omni-bladed hand through your hair. You’d only had it up in a loose bun, most of it fell loose in the kerfuffle. You can’t fix it with a blade on one arm. Irritating. "I stabbed you." You had. Right in the stomach. You’d been absolutely frantic, and felt _horrible_ about it, even though it was after you’d learned that Kraven was harder to kill than a Krogan. You have bad experiences with panicking and stabbing people you  like. 

"I was fine." 

"I nearly stabbed you two other times. Twice now, you have been set on fire." 

"It was perfectly fair. Your fight/flight reflex is strongly geared towards fight. I can appreciate that." 

"I’m not _apologizing!_ " you exclaim. "I’m trying to get you to stop making me almost stab you! Being stabbed or set on fire is the literal definition of ending badly!" 

"That is a very subjective opinion." 

"Maker help me," you curse, rubbing your hand down your face. Your heart is still pounding in your ears. You don’t know how to make it stop. 

"It is a very reasonable reaction to being hunted," Kraven assures you. "I hold no ill will; that is always the risk involved. And in any case, no permanent damage could be done." 

"I dunno, maybe if I try hard enough…" you grumble to yourself, despite the fact you’d met him trying to fight a thresher maw one-on-one (and winning). Then you pause, blinking. "...What do you mean, ’being hunted?’" 

"Your body is aware of it, no?" he gestures towards you, half-shrugging. "The pounding of your heart. Fear, adrenaline. Being chased, being followed. Being hunted." 

"Are you _stalking_ me?!" 

"No," he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "That implies something different." 

"Are you _following_ me?" 

"In order to be following you, you would have to be going somewhere. At present, you are standing still." 

"Don’t play the oh-I’m-so-sorry-I-do-not-understand-your-language card with _me_ , Kraven, that is _my card_ ," you growl. 

"It is only natural for a hunter to watch something so interesting!" he protests innocently. You’re contemplating stabbing him anyway. "You are dangerous, and flighty. You shy from people, but you explore and touch everything when no one is watching." 

"Andraste’s tits, you cannot fucking _stalk me_ \--hunt, whatever!" you snap at his frown. 

"Certainly I can," he responds, crossing his arms, still frowning. "And because you are clever, occasionally you catch me at it and stab me. It’s quite natural." 

"If this is another rabbit joke, I swear to the Maker--" 

"Rabbits do not _stab_ ," he scoffs, sounding offended. "And I would not waste my time with one. You know this about me, I hunt only the most interesting of prey." 

"I," you snarl, taking a step forward without really thinking about it. "Am not. Prey." 

"No… perhaps not," he agrees, smiling a different kind of smile, one you’re not sure you like. It sends a little shiver down your spine. You’re regretting stepping closer. "You are deadly, in the way of a predator. All tightly bound fury. You jump and run, but is it like a deer, or like a tiger? There _is_ something predatory inside you, I think." He reaches out towards your face, as if to grip your chin, and you slap his hand away--with the bladed arm, not thinking. You hit him with the flat of the blade but still. Dangerous. But you don’t move to put the blade away, either. 

"Stop," you say, voice low, sounding almost alien to you. "Just… fucking. Stop." 

"You could try and make me, _baba-ushki_ ," he suggests, a playful sort of smirk on his lips, and something inside of you snaps, something about about the combination of this situation and the friendly nickname that reminds you of other people and other places and friendlier, more familiar nicknames. 

" **Stop.** " It’s no longer low or quiet, but a shout. "Just fucking stop! Everything else in this fucking shitty world is the absolute worst! There are aliens everywhere and I have to yell everything in Maker-damned _Orlesian_ for you _idiots_ to understand me; I don’t know how _anything_ in the kitchen works, it took me two weeks to stop being scared of _doors!_ " You’ve lost your mind; you’re just yelling. You just want it to stop. 

"Everything is _horrifying_ and we’re all surrounded by _nothing_ and I’m literally constantly terrified of every person and thing on this entire fucking ship, except _you!_ " You point an accusing finger towards him. This has the unfortunate side effect of nearly stabbing him in the chest, since there’s a long, sharp blade hovering above your arm. "One fucking thing, Kraven, I only wanted one thing, to relax and have some weird fucking alien tea with a weird fucking asshole who never asked me weird fucking questions about ’element zero’ or _whatever_ , so just _stop_ just _shut the fuck up_ and let me--" 

"Ssshhh," Kraven says. 

It is very close to the worst possible thing he could have said. 

"Don’t fucking _shush_ me you furry piece of  circus tra\--" 

At which point Kraven pushes his hand against your mouth, muffling your yells. 

You see red for a moment, and when your senses come back, you’re already mid-stab, fist and the blade above it arcing towards the arm that he dared to touch you with. So he grabs your wrist with his other hand, grip painfully tight on your wrist. Not quite bone-crunching, but painful enough that you believe it could be. 

So, obviously, you swing back your left hand to punch him. 

To your surprise, the blow lands, right on his jaw. He doesn’t seem particularly affected, though, and you’re a bit off balance. He takes advantage of your momentum to spin you around and then _lift you off the ground_ , pinning both of your arms--and in fact your entire upper body--to his chest. He covers your mouth again before you can yell, and you let out a furious, muffled scream, struggling first with your pinned arms before giving up on that and just kicking furiously. 

He carries you off with fast, determined steps as you flail and, as soon as you manage to get your mouth open a bit, bite. You chew furiously on what you suspect is one of his fingers, not really even registering the furious growling in your throat. You remember that you can set things on fire roughly the same time he’s kicking the panel to open a door and tossing you in. You hit the ground with a pained yelp and roll, mostly just to get more space between the two of you and catch your bearings. 

He closes the door behind him, and you notice that at some point he tore the omni-tool right off your wrist and deactivated the whole thing. Which means you’re unarmed. You have to remind yourself that you’re _never_ unarmed--it’s still not in your nature to use your magic first. 

When it’s clear he’s not going to even approach you, let alone charge you, you stand slowly, eyes trained on him in a cold fury. 

A few more seconds pass in silence before you speak. "Give that back," you say, your voice cold and flat to your ears. "And let me leave." 

"As soon as you have calmed down," he says flatly, and turns to place your omni-tool on a particularly high shelf--one you couldn’t reach without climbing him. Which you will absolutely fucking do if necessary. 

"I would be _perfectly calm_ ," you shout, voice immediately rising out of control again. "If you weren’t _stalking me_ and then _dragging me off to--_ " Your eyes flash around the room, and you take in the bed, the desk, the assorted alien taxidermies on the wall. "...Is this your fucking _bedroom?!_ " 

"Where else?" he says, as if it was the obvious place to drag a snarling, biting, kicking young woman trying to stab you. 

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?!" you shout. "What the fuck is wrong with this entire horrible fucking place?! Okay! Sure! Maybe whatever fucking _hellscape_ you tripped off of, they stalk women and drag them around, but you don’t get to do that with me!" You realize that you’re taking steps closer, that your fingers are twitching for something that’s not there. Fuck it. This time, if he grabs you, you can set him on fire. "You stupid, obnoxious fucking _son of a whore I swear to Koslun that the next time you lay a hand on me without asking, I will turn it to **ash--**_ " 

You don’t even still see him, not really. You’re furious, your heart is racing, you can feel the press of a thousand arms that have held you down, and right now, he’s the one in front of you. He’s the one who touched you last, and he’s the one you’re going to make regret it. You give him a shove, full on the chest, despite the fact he’s significantly larger than you. He only sways, slightly, but it seems to irritate him, a scowl breaking on his face. 

"Do not do that again," he warns you. 

"Or _what_ , you goddamn ox-man," you snarl, and shove him again, this time pushing raw mana into your arms to shove with supernatural force. He grabs your wrists, both of them, and yanks them down, jolting your arms in their sockets. You let out a snarl, anger and pain, and slam your foot down on his. This… doesn’t really accomplish much, as you’re barefoot. Goddamnit, why is everyone always so much larger than you. 

"I am certain you are better at struggling than _this_ ," he says with a frown, as if he’s genuinely disappointed. And then you remember your plan, and don’t care what a bad idea it is anymore. With a flood of pooled power, you ignite both of your hands in unison. The burning pain is comforting, familiar, and helps stop the furious pounding in your ears. It also helps that it works, he lets go of both your wrists. But instead of doing the smart thing and stepping backwards, you draw back your still burning fist and swing it up at his face. 

This goes roughly as well as you would have predicted, had you been in your right mind. 

Kraven grabs your forearm, a bit away from the part that’s actively on fire. This time, he’s not content to simply hold onto you. A single shove and you’re off-balance, stumbling backwards, and he follows you, pushing, until you lose balance entirely and fall backwards, bracing yourself for a crash against the ground. 

Instead, you land on something soft and kind of fuzzy. 

Kraven has pinned both of your arms down. At some point, you’d lost focus, and they’d both gone out. He’s over you in a very real sense, legs on either side of you, and Maker, he’s huge, isn’t he? Not Qunari huge, but kind of close really, and human in a way they lack, tanned skin and dark hair. Warm, when he’s this close, in a way you’re not used to feeling-- 

You realize, slightly belatedly, that Kraven has pinned you down on _his bed._

Instinct kicks in. You aim a butterfly kick right between his spread legs, readying yourself to escape and run to the door, your pride be damned. The pain of the fire brought you back to your senses enough that you’re becoming slightly aware of how stupid you’ve been. But your kick never connects--his legs snap shut and your shin is trapped between his thighs. 

They are remarkably strong thighs, all things considered. 

It’s ridiculous, really. Who even needs thighs like that. Does he recreationally crush skulls between them? ...Maybe. You can’t rule it out. 

"Have you calmed down now?" Kraven asks, probably picking up on your relatively minor struggling and significant lack of setting him on fire. 

"No!" you snap, despite your seconds-ago decision that you were an idiot. "I am not even slightly calm! Literally no one would be calm in this fucking situation you intolerable _ape_ of a  man! Get off of me!" 

"You just said you weren’t calm," he points out, evenness of his voice betrayed somewhat by the rise and fall of his chest. Had you burned him particularly badly?

"It’s not your job to calm me down!" 

"Should I let you scream in the halls while waving a knife?" he counters, and you glare, mostly because you can’t immediately think of a good counter to that. 

"Oh, please," you say finally. "You dragged me to your bedroom and now you have me pinned down on your _bed_ like a _damsel._ You’re just enjoying yourself." 

"The fact that I’m enjoying myself has very little to do with the situation at hand," he says, frowning as if he’s confused that you’d suddenly bring it up. But you’re not paying attention to that. You’re stuck on what he said, the casual confirmation flushing your cheeks as you’re left, briefly, speechless. It’s quite an accomplishment, really. 

But being briefly stunned means you’ve stopped struggling entirely, and Kraven seems to take this as a sign he can be slightly less brutal with you, dropping your leg--which will surely bruise, along with most of the rest of you at this point--from between his thighs. His. Super strong, muscular thighs, and now you’re thinking about that again. 

Kraven grins that stupid, crooked grin of his again, and you’re at once aware that you are, yes, pinned to his bed, and now you’re blushing like a Maker damned idiot, and you’re probably panting harder than he is, and _fuck._

"This is a good look for you," he says, confirming your suspicions of exactly how this looks, and suddenly you don’t really care that you don’t totally hate the way he looks above you, because you’re back to angry. You’re never really very far from angry at any given time.

You… look, there’s only one word for it. You give a mighty squirm. A wriggle the likes of which would awe the average worm. But it does the trick; you wiggle and kick off the bed and twist and you’re free, gloriously free, slipping between Kraven’s legs--what a view--and onto the ground. As soon as you hit the ground, you’re scrambling. Get to the door--what if it’s locked--get to your omni-tool, and then--HRK 

Something about this situation has translated to Kraven that it is acceptable to _grab you by your hair._ You let out a noise that you will maintain until your dying day is one of  pain. 

Before you have a chance to recover and also find some way to punish him for _daring_ , he’s on top of you, _again_ , he needs to stop _doing that_. This time, however, he’s shoving you against the ground. He lets your hair go long enough to grab your arms and twist them behind your back hard enough to make you cry out in alarm. You have dislocated your shoulders enough that it’s not as difficult as you’d like to pull them out. Then he has your arms in one hand-- _one of his hands can go around both of your forearms holy shit_ \--and those too-strong legs are on either side of your hips, holding way too tight. 

His hand is back in your hair, gripping near the base, pulling. You let out a pained whine as he twists your head back. It’s hard to breathe--he’s not on your chest, but he’s _heavy_ and you are _comparatively small_ and also were just _slammed into the ground._

Then that hand, tangled as it is in your hair, wraps around the back of your neck. 

You can feel his fingers against the side of your neck. 

His hand is too big. 

You freeze, instincts firing all at once and conflicting. You just go still, which feels to you like the most useless thing. 

You _feel_ Kraven chuckle as much as you hear it. He runs fingers along your neck, his thumb, up and down against what you know to be a very important nerve. 

Why didn’t you _run_ \-- 

And then his hand has released your neck, redoubled its grip on your hair. He yanks your head to the side, twisting your neck, and you can look back and _see him_. 

The sight of him shouldn’t calm you down, in this situation, but some part of you had been expecting to see someone else. 

He leans down over you, and you can _very much_ feel how much he’s enjoying this, pressed against your ass. You can watch him as he leans down, closer and closer to you, until his lips are practically touching your ear. 

"Are you done yet?" he inquires, softly, voice low. "Because we have just begun to explore the things I can do." 

Your whole body shudders. 

The anger at humiliation is still there, but it’s subdued. The panic has lessened. You’re aware of the situation, aware of your relative strengths compared to his. Remembering important things about his personality that you should have remembered sooner. You’re better than this; really you are. When has brute strength ever been your forte? 

You go the rest of the way to limp, weak and complacent against his grip. Kraven picks up on the change in attitude immediately, head tilting a bit to the side. You look back up at him, leaning into the flushed expression you know you have. 

"Yes, I’m done," you say, forcing your voice to be meek. Kraven’s eyes narrow: suspicion. You can hardly blame him; you’ve been trying to eviscerate him against all odds for a while now. But you just fix him with your widest, most doe-like stare, letting your flushed face do the work for you. He gives your hair another yank, almost experimentally, and the urge to try and kick him is very strong. But instead you let out a little cry, all pain and weakness. 

Kraven sighs--actually _sighs_ , like he’s so put out by all of this--but lets go of your arms, his nose wrinkling in distaste. You don’t immediately bolt or struggle, just bend them into a more comfortable position, still staying limp and submissive on the floor, panting like you can’t catch enough air. And you stay like that as he brings his weight off your ass, leaning back up onto his heels. 

You’re out of there like greased lightning, scrambling madly across the floor and towards the door, not even bothering to lift yourself up until you’re properly out from under him and away. You almost make it, too, but then you feel a hand on your ankle. Quickly, you roll over, unwilling to be caught on your stomach again, and aim a kangaroo kick square at his face. He catches your other leg and pins it down. Both of his hands are on your legs. So you sit straight up, intending to take full advantage. You can do some real damage when you’re in your right mind, when you’re thinking clearly and with all the magical and combat training drilled into you over the years. If you put his eyes out, will they grow back? 

You grab his beard, roughly, nails probably digging into his skin, and pull his face down 

Against… yours? 

You’re, uh. 

You’re kissing him. 

That wasn’t what you’d been planning on doing. 

But you’re definitely doing it, with a fierce hunger that only grows when you taste him, salt and strange smoke and heat. Fuck. He tastes good. Of course he does. Life is cruel like that. 

You don’t think you’re at it very long before you let him go. You blink in confusion. That… what was that? 

...You’re an idiot. Why in the Void did you do that? 

"Um… That was… Uh, sor--" 

You only get that little bit out before Kraven’s let go of one of your legs, and grabbed the hair at the back of your skull again, pulling your head backwards. You let out a startled little cry--what _is it_ with him and your _hair_ all of a  sudden? 

But then he’s kissing _you_. And it’s all force and hunger, more hunger than you could muster if you wanted to. Taking advantage of the open mouth of your cry. Tongue and teeth and lips, taste of heat that reminds you of Seheron summers. 

You like it so much more than you should. 

You should almost certainly be focusing more on getting away. On getting your omni-tool back. On making him regret his actions. 

Instead, you’re enjoying yourself, eyes sliding halfway closed. ...Look. It’s been a while, and you still have a lot of pent-up stress. Also, he’s big and has spent the last ten minutes or so manhandling you, and… Look. You’re allowed to be a bit ambivalent about these things. You’ve earned that. Probably. 

You realize that he’s let go of your legs. 

You curl them both to your chest, and then let out one hell of a kick directly against his chest. His kiss abruptly becomes a pained wheeze--you carry almost all of your physical strength in your legs. He’s knocked backwards away from you, as intended, but unfortunately, he does not let go of your hair. You’re yanked with him, letting out a pained yelp. He catches his balance before you do, and you collide with his chest, legs awkwardly folded underneath you, between his. 

He smells good. 

Not like anything you’re used to. No elfroot, no ink, no sweet Seheron spices or dusty books. Like dark, ground herbs and thick smoke and just… like him, a scent you hadn’t quite realized you could identifiably register, but reminds you of safety in combat and jam in tea. 

Unthinking, you nuzzle against the crook of his neck, relaxing against his chest… before opening your mouth and sinking teeth into the side of his neck. Not as hard as you could, but harder than most would like. 

He groans. Not a particularly pained sound. Not anything like you’ve heard out of him before. Your bite turns into more of a nibble, sucking against his skin. His neck is as appealing as his lips, for many of the same reasons. The salt of his skin bursts against your tongue, and you grin at his huff of breath. 

A short-lived satisfaction as he yanks you away from his neck--by the hair, _again_ , you’re starting to think he has no intentions to stop yanking you around by it. Your head is yanked painfully back again, but this time he brings his lips to your neck. Turnabout is fair play, and all that. It’s not feeling particularly fair to you, however, even though he doesn’t bite as hard as you had. It’s particularly unfair and uncalled for when he keeps traveling up, chasing your gasps, up your neck, across your jaw-- 

He pauses, lips less than centimeters from your ear. Your hands are clenched against his legs, you’re not sure when that happened, fingernails digging against leggings. So _close_ , you can feel his _breath_. "This is not quite ’calm,’ _baba-ushki_ ," he chides, and you swear you can feel the ghost of his lips at the edge of your ear. "But I believe we can work with it." Your grip on his legs tightens spasmodically, fistfulls of cloth. With his lips that close to your ear, you can almost _feel_ his words as much as you hear them. Your breath hitches, and then Kraven moves that last half-inch and sharply nips the bottom of your ear and you just--nngh. 

You have no time to recover from the full-body shudder that twists through you; he bites again, harder, and this time you let out a cry that you have absolutely no hopes of defending as "definitely just pain." He pauses, and chuckles, low and throaty and _right in your ear_. You half-heartedly swat at his chest, trying to compose yourself and having absolutely no success. 

"Sensitive?" he murmurs, and you don’t even have time to consider answering before he’s experimenting for himself, tongue and teeth and lips along the length of your ear, testing for what makes you twitch, what makes your breath catch in your chest and what makes it escape out in a huffy groan. 

If you were flushed before, by the time he pulls away from your ear, you must be a mess. You have no real hopes of controlling your expression--self-control when super aroused has never been something you had to practice. And all you can really think about is how he tastes and smells and how his hands feel in your hair, and the echoes of teeth on your ear. 

Speaking of his hand in your hair, is it just you or is it gripping less fiercely than before? Less of a sharp fistfull of hair and more… fingers against your skull. His thumb runs in an idle circle against your scalp. You might lean into it, a bit. 

Feels good. 

...With his grip loose in your hair, he’s not really pinning you at all anymore.

… 

You rocket out from where you’re awkwardly crumpled between his legs, aware now of how his thighs can close like a steel trap. No hopes of getting back out of his range in time when you’re this close, so instead you kick forward off the ground, hair slipping between his fingers as you dive under his arm. 

The last man you tried this on had a bad left shoulder. 

Kraven does not. 

His arm snaps down, pinning you against his side, wrapped around the small of your waist. 

You squirm. 

It accomplishes literally nothing. 

"Ah, dam--" you manage to get out right before he smacks your ass. **Hard.**

Thank goodness his room is soundproofed. 

He lands another blow as you’re still recovering from the first, this one a bit lower. Your second screech is not any quieter than the first, and doesn’t have any less of a moaning quality. Possibly, more of one. 

You should not be okay with this. 

You are _extremely_ okay with this. 

Your cries of protest turn more and more into moans with the next few smacks. But you still have it in you to be severely alarmed when he sinks fingers around the waistband of your leggings and pulls them down, baring your ass and not much else. 

"What the f--" SMACK "Nnnghhhaa~!" Alright, that was very obviously a moan, there was no other word for that. You have no defense for your behavior at this point. 

And then he _stands up._ While still holding you tucked under his arm. Like it’s nothing. One minute you’re half-crumpled on the ground, the next, you’re dangling in the air. It seems to be about as difficult for him as holding a nug. So, not that difficult at all, really, but you _are_ squirming a lot. This, he fixes in the most sensible way, by smacking your bare ass again. 

_You should not be okay with this._

Before you can register whether or not you want to protest your newfound lack of trousers and apparent lack of weight to him, he’s tossed you. A lot like he had earlier in the day, though not nearly as hard. You flail a bit as you arc through the air--he always has way more force behind his tosses than you think should be possible for a human--and then thud onto the bed on your back. 

You suspect he meant for that to be that. He intended to throw you onto the bed. It would all be very sexy, and you would swoon, because you keep moaning when he yanks your hair or spanks you. That was probably his plan. 

Unfortunately, he has severely over-estimated your weight, and you hit the bed and bounce like a stone skipping over a clear lake, bouncing right off of it again and spinning ass over end over the edge of the bed, where you smash onto the floor with a painful crunch. 

That son of a bitch. 

Rather than stand and face the indignity of having sailed through the air and ragdolled across Kraven’s bed, you stay down. In fact, you just get onto your hands and knees and stay very low, very close to the bed. Waiting. He might come around the end. But the most direct path is over the bed, and Kraven is a very direct man. 

Sure enough, after a few moments of silence, you hear a creak on the bed, and you tense, readying yourself. The second you see his head poke over the edge of the bed, you spring upwards, smashing into him with a growl. He goes tumbling, but the victorious grin on your face is quickly wiped off as he lets your momentum keep the two of you rolling. You tumble over him and hit the bed on your back. With Kraven, once again, over you. 

"Damnit, Kraven," you complain, panting for a variety of reasons. 

"You are no rhinoceros, _baba-ushki,_ to try to beat me in a full-on charge. But as always, I give you points for spirit," he says, and it sounds so much like the normal bullshit he spouts that you find yourself rolling your eyes the same way you would if the two of you were talking over tea and snacks. Like your legs aren’t all tangled up in leggings pulled off your hips, like you aren’t pinned down on his bed. 

"Oh, _good. Points,_ " you say, voice dripping sarcasm. "What can I trade them in for?" 

"Oh, a _number of things_ ," Kraven replies, a broad predator’s grin that makes you tighten and loosen at the same time, in weird places. "But I doubt you can behave long enough." 

"Worried I’m going to kick you again?" You’re considering it, but also not, because your ass hurts in a way you don’t hate, and you’re remembering the way his teeth felt against your neck and ear. 

"No," he replies shortly, and then pulls your pants down further, causing you to yelp in surprise, reaching for them without thinking. He pulls them down to about your knees, but no further, only exacerbating the tangling issue. Before you can really react, he’s leaned away, no longer looming over you, but you’re being physically _bent_ , your legs being lifted in the air and then folded part-way over your torso. It’s not particularly comfortable. 

"What the _shit_ ," you wheeze, unable to bend anymore to lean forward, but smacking at his hands on your thighs anyway. Your ass is _off the bed_ , this is _ridiculous._ "What are you--" 

Your answer comes when he scoots behind your ass, pressing against you, and reaches over your contorted body to wrap one single hand around your neck. 

He can’t quite reach all the way around your neck with one hand. 

But it’s a close thing. 

Your eyes go wide--things are happening very fast, all of a sudden. Not that they were going slowly before, but pretty much the second you’d stopped actively trying to kick his ass, you’d found yourself pinned to the bed by your neck and bent in half with your leggings around your knees and your crotch on plain display. 

Your ankles are resting on Kraven’s shoulders, your ass against his abdomen. It’s a very solid abdomen. You’re fairly certain every inch of him is solid. Not like that. Well, yes like that, but you didn’t need to be thinking about it. 

He runs a thumb against that nerve along the side of your neck again, like a promise, or a threat. Both, you think. The promise of something delightful and the threat of something horrible, depending on what you do next. He gives a little squeeze, and you let out a sound between a choke and a whimper. 

"If you squeeze," he promises, tapping one of your ankles with his other hand, where they rest on his shoulders. "So I will I." 

Right. Yes. Understood. No trying to choke out Kraven the Hunter when his hand is around your neck. 

You could make him let go, if you really wanted. He has to know that. You hate burn wounds on your neck, but now that you don’t have to live in constant fear of your own power, you have that one advantage. Your hands are absolutely free, one resting over top of his hand on your neck. If you were enraged, truly enraged, if he were your enemy, you could melt his face down to his skull before he could choke the life from your body. 

He hoists your ass up a little more, the hand that isn’t wrapped around your neck cupping your ass. Then, almost casually, he slides a finger inside of you. 

You’re really not thinking about setting him on fire, anymore. 

You’re thinking about how good even just one finger feels, and also how you hadn’t realized how wet you were. How long have you been like that? Since he hit your ass? Longer? It feels like there’s hardly any friction at all, just smooth and wet and now something small and hard curling inside you. You feel him slip another finger in, nearly as effortlessly but not quite, because his hands are large and you’re small, and you let out a soft little moan, a tight sound thanks to the hand wrapped around your neck. 

"I was concerned, given your slight frame," Kraven says, sounding intensely amused. "But given the amount of lubrication you’re providing, I doubt it will be an issue." 

Your face flames red in indignation--it’s amazing that you can still get angry at him being an asshole when your position is _this_ compromised--and you open your mouth for a sharp, biting retort. 

"Hrrrkk--*" is all that comes out, however, because Kraven casually learns his weight forward, crushing your windpipe. 

You can’t breathe, let alone speak, your eyes fixed on the smirk on his lips and the muscles in his arms, and his fingers are still twisting in and out of you, harder now, twisting and curling _just so_ and _oh Maker you still can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, you_ \-- He pulls the pressure off of your neck, though he doesn’t let go, and you gasp for air wildly, his fingers still working you over. 

You can’t even remember what you’d been about to say, because that rush of air and his fingers in you and oH his thumb has found your clit, and you’re trying to grind against him but you can’t, not at this awkward angle, not with your ass in the air and nothing to gain purchase against. You don’t really want to say anything, anyway, because this is fine, and you’re too busy gasping and groaning and it feels good, this stretching, pressure and pleasure. 

This is fine, really. You can roll with this. 

"These sounds are so much better than all the yelling," Kraven observes, and you really wish he’d shut up, because you just want to enjoy this and not think about the logistics, not think about how you’d been ready to slice him open, not think of anything but the way this _feels._ "I’ll have to remember this the next time you grow unpleasant." 

"Oh, fuck you," you groan out between gasps, relishing in the way his fingers twitch tighter, pressing dents into the side of your neck to match the curl of his fingers inside you. 

"The opposite, I think," he disagrees, and rotates his hand while his fingers are still inside of you. Then you feel his thumb against your ass, slick with your fluids, and with no real warning, it’s pressing in, and you jolt, letting out a loud moan. Your legs spasm, closing around his neck almost reflexively, but the way his grip closes threateningly around your neck has you fighting to relax them at once, and then his thumb is just one more finger working in and out of you. You can’t breathe, and it’s not because of his hand around your neck. Contorted the way you are, you can’t even writhe up against him properly, and your moaning turns a bit into begging whines. 

"Sounds that are better and better," he says approvingly. You want to say something bitchy, you really do, but also you don’t, and there are worse things than being praised, and hadn’t you JUST said you could roll with this? 

"Harder," your treacherous mouth says, and Kraven tsks gently. 

"You don’t demand. You _beg._ " 

You fix him with a potent glare. It’s probably not actually that potent given that you’re staring at him between your legs. He gives you an even, neutral look, and his fingers still inside of you. 

...Fuck it. 

"Keep going, please." You practically spit the last word out. 

"That did not sound very genuine." You grit your teeth. Then you take a deep breath. You have done far worse things than this, for far less. This is _fine._

You open your eyes and train them on his. You see the slightest quirk in his mouth, but can’t identify the expression, the thoughts behind it. "Kraven," you say, his name coming out like a sigh. "Fuck me, please. Fuck me until I can’t breathe, until I can’t _think_. Until there’s not room for anything else in my head but this." 

That appears to be sufficient. You can see something dark in his expression, but that’s fine, it’s fine, because it looks good with his hand around your neck, and he’s moving again, harder, fingers pressing a demanding curl inside you, a third finger slipping in. You whimper, you moan, you whisper quiet begging in Elven, safe in the knowledge it’s a language not even these blasted translators know. 

His hand tightens on your neck, now and then, not cutting off your breath but making your head spin, pressing all the best places just right, and it would be very easy for him to slip and you not to notice, but it feels so good and you can’t focus on anything. Everything is hitting all at once, a blur of pressure and explosive pleasure and the slick slipping of skin against skin, the room filling with heat and your whimpered prayers, growing louder and louder despite his grip on your neck until you reach a crescendo, praising the feel of his fingers to gods that never existed in your world and certainly don’t here. 

You go limp against him, ass caught against his stomach, body still contorted painfully, back aching from coming in such a position. But despite the pain--and you’re very aware of aching now, your back, your neck, your arms, every place that’s been twisted by him or hit the ground too hard--you feel relaxed. You aren’t thinking about the Void outside, the expanse of nothingness, the horrible death. Not thinking about the friends you may never see again or how _wrong_ everything here is. You’re not thinking anything. Your mind is a contented hum, a happy chord twisting around air in an empty room. Your eyes rest lazily on Kraven, the lightest smile on your face, or perhaps that’s just how the lack of an angry frown feels to you now. 

You haven’t quite recovered when he pulls your legs off his shoulder, even higher up into the air. You let out a vague noise of protest, not quite up to forming words yet. He pulls your leggings the rest of the way off, leaving your legs finally untangled and free. You could certainly kick him in the face. You have no desire to. 

Although that changes slightly when he grabs one of your legs and spins you, pulling it over your other leg so you’re forced to roll over. "Fuck, can you not manhandle me for one fucking sec\--MMPH!" He pulls you up higher, your arms sliding out from under you and sending you face-first into the bed. It’s a very awkward pose, and it takes you a moment to get your weight supported on your arms again. He rests your thighs onto his shoulders, which clues you into what he’s after about a split second before you feel his tongue on your clit. 

You shriek, or maybe moan, or maybe some combination of the two, whole body spasming. "Sensitive!" you gasp out, your body still aching from coming the first time. He responds to that information by _sucking_ on your clit, and you’re not convinced the noise you make could ever pass for human. 

Your body is _on fire_ , it’s _electric_ , lightning flooding your veins, and you _know_ what that feels like, so it’s not a comparison you make lightly. Your thighs have to be squeezing, but they’re hardly skull-crushers, and he doesn’t seem to care. His grip is on your hips, holding you to him, and you doubt you could break his grip and scramble away, even if your whole body weren’t twitching and spasming with every lick. 

It’s at that point you realize you’re upside down, and facing him, and if you bent towards him instead of trying to crawl away… You shift, hefting more of your weight onto your legs on his shoulders--which, coincidentally, kind of shoves you against his face. He hums his approval against your skin, making your moans crescendo briefly. 

It’s not very comfortable, all the blood trying to rush to your head at the same time it tries to pool downwards, your weight supported on thighs and awkwardly on your arms. But… 

Yeah. Gosh. That. Sure is a crotch, yep. 

It’s amazing you never really noticed his dick before, honestly, because it’s not doing a good job of hiding in his leggings, like, at all. You can quite literally see the outline of it, straining up and to the side. You swallow, throat suddenly feeling a bit dry. 

He _is_ a pretty big guy, you really shouldn’t be surprised. 

Not that you’re intimidated or anything. At all. You’re definitely not thinking about comparative sizes, and above all, you’re absolutely not scared, because you refuse to be scared of Kraven. You _refuse_. You don’t want to give him the  satisfaction. 

And so, rebellion on your mind, you balance your weight on one awkwardly positioned arm, and shift the other one enough that you can run a hand--that is _definitely_ only shaking because of how difficult this position  is!--along the length of the outline through Kraven’s leggings. You’re rewarded with his hands spasming tighter around your hips, tight enough to hurt a lot, tight enough that you bet you’ll have fingerprint bruises, and a short, vibrating groan against your clit. Not quite a moan, but close enough that you want to see if you can get a real one. 

Of course, his tongue redoubles its efforts, focusing even more on your clit, which makes it very, _very_ difficult to focus. You’re also trying very hard not to kick him in the head, which is a definite risk and not something you want to do unless it’s on  purpose. And also just not something you want to do in general with his teeth right next to such a sensitive area. 

You could probably get his dick out of the leggings it so clearly wants to escape, if you could use both hands, even upside down as you are. But your body keeps shaking and you need one arm down to support your weight, and you can’t _focus_ , so you just grip it through his pants, panting and groaning and trying not to let your grip spasm too tight. 

"Kraven, Maker, fuck," you moan, and you could recite poetry for his tongue right then, but that’s too many words, and all the poems you know are in Orlesian anyway. "Too much, it’s too much," and you mean it, but you’re pulling yourself closer to him instead of away. "I can’t, I can’t, I’m, I--" 

Your body curls up on itself as you come, weight on his shoulders and his hands on your hips, lifting yourself off the bed with a cry that’s almost pained, and you think if he touches you for one more second, you might die, it’s _too much_ , and-- 

He lets you slide down away from him, your shoulders hitting the bed first and then the rest of you folding down off of him and flopping against the bed. You feel like you could melt into the sheets. You can’t separate out the pain from everything else, your whole body throbbing with too much sensation. 

Your head is between his knees. It’s a great fucking view, and you’re tired enough that you don’t even pretend not to be watching as he makes a show of wiping his mouth off. 

You can’t say he’s your usual type, because you’re not sure you have a usual type past ’elf.’ But you’re probably the only elf in the entire universe or whatever now, so that’s kind of a lost cause. And he’s tall, which you like, with broad shoulders, which you like. He’s good with both is fingers and his tongue, which is a definite plus. 

You don’t normally do this sort of thing outside of work. Or the occasional very ill-advised one-night-stand, always with people who will be gone in the morning. Definitely not with someone you live with, work with. Drink tea with, depend on for conversations you can understand. 

This is a very bad idea, but you’ve kind of already made it, so it’s a moot point now. Also, he’s reaching back over his head, gripping the neck of his shirt… He pulls it off in one smooth motion, and you’re not even slightly thinking about what a bad idea this is anymore, because muscles and _hair, wow_. You wouldn’t have ever said body hair was your thing, but it seems to emphasize the lines of his chest and stomach. You couldn’t really imagine him without it. 

You might miss the smooth lines of an elven body, but somehow, you don’t feel like you’re settling. 

It would probably be rude if you reached up and stroked his stomach to see if it was as hard as it looked. 

You’re not sure why you’re suddenly concerned about being fucking _rude_ , as if you hadn’t just been trying to do him great bodily harm. You called him a piece of furry circus trash, and also a son of a whore. Groping is pretty low on the list of offenses, compared to that. 

Almost idly, you stretch languidly, arching your back, working stiff and tight muscles. You like seeing the way his eyes trace over your stomach as your shirt rises up to bare it. You don’t have much going on, physically, but it’s nice to feel attractive. Your head tilting backwards, your face is essentially on his crotch. Which had been the point. You let your tongue slide over the length outlined in his leggings, saliva soaking a dark line into the cloth. You watch as his muscles clench all over his body, his nostrils flare. A little smirk quirks over your lips. 

Short-lived, as it turns out. 

Kraven reaches down and in one quick motion pulls the waistband of his leggings down freeing his dick. There is suddenly a cock, _very much_ in your face. Your mouth falls open in shock. This was, as with most things you’ve done  lately, something of a mistake. 

With no preamble, Kraven simply shoves his cock directly into your open mouth, in and _back_ , straight down your throat. 

He pulls out before your mouth clenches in shock, and you spasm before you flail, gagging and then coughing. You go to sit up, but he grips your neck again, lifting it up and bending your head back the way you’d had it when you’d licked his length. 

You can very much see where this is going. 

You have absolutely no objections, although you would seriously have appreciated a warning. Your eyes are stinging with tears from his sudden insertion all the way back into your throat. But his thumb is right on your windpipe and his cock is still very hard and very in your face, and now slightly wet with your saliva. He runs that thumb along your neck as you finish coughing, then just rubs his cock against your face, making you wince and close one eye to avoid getting anything sticky in it. 

It’s more than a little humiliating, having someone rub their dick on your face. 

You’re fairly certain that if anyone else had tried it, they wouldn’t have gotten to keep their dick. 

But with Kraven, it works; the sight of him looming above you, the tight-but-not-too-tight grip of his fingers pressing into your neck. He’d thrown you around, pinned you down, laughed, and now he was rubbing his cock wherever he pleased, because he’d already proved he could. 

That wasn’t necessarily true. You don’t care. It’s working for you. You’ve caught your breath now, and you open your mouth again, not surprised this time when he slides between your lips. 

He doesn’t push as far this time, instead insistently rubbing the head of his cock against your tongue, before pulling your neck up a little bit more, until your head is basically fully upside down, and he has a straight shot down your throat. To your surprise, he doesn’t immediately take advantage of that, instead working back gradually, as if testing your gag reflex. 

Your gag reflex is a _tamed beast_ , thank you very much, so long as people aren’t randomly shoving their entire dicks down your throat with no warning. Hmph. 

You don’t really have long to be mildly put off by his comparative delicacy--and it says _a lot_ about you that you’re capable of finding any kind of face-fuck too gentle--because he seems to be figured that fact out quickly. And you have to focus on when to breathe and trying to swallow and making sure not to choke, which would be easier if he weren’t so… uh… well, look, he’s a broad guy in a lot of senses, okay? 

Despite, or perhaps because of the effort, you find your body heating back up like you hadn’t just had two back-to-back orgasms. You squirm in his grip, rubbing legs against the furry bedspread, body hunting for friction that isn’t there. Your hands are on his hips, an automatic reaction to anyone shoving something long and hard down your throat, but they’re not really doing you any good there. 

Trusting him not to suddenly start choking you--er, uh, well, with his hand, anyway--you let your arms drop, one hand going to your chest and the other between your legs. It’s obscenely slick. You can’t really get any traction. You don’t stop trying, eyes long since slid shut. They burn, the salt of tears from too many coughs, chokes, and gags forcibly suppressed, from a lack of air. 

Kraven, for his part, seems to have a creative concept of how much air you need. He keeps his dick down your throat significantly longer than you think most people would be comfortable with, and rarely pulls it all the way out to let you gasp in full breaths into your burning lungs. When he does, you try to suck in as much air as you can, and he rubs his cock against your face again. You let out a displeased noise, which you realize belatedly is basically a growl. You’re pretty sure you just growled at him. 

Kraven’s reasoned response is, predictably, to shove his cock back into your mouth, this time not stopping. Your whole body spasms, rocking against the bed, and you automatically try to pull away. He grips your neck harder, pulling you towards him as he pushes in, until your lips are wrapped around the base of his cock. The eye that isn’t tightly closed to avoid getting _saliva_ in it is wide as you kick against the bed, hands flying back to his hips, as if that could possibly help the situation. 

He holds you there even as you struggle automatically against his grip. It doesn’t seem to be giving him much difficulty, despite the fact he’s using one hand around your neck. 

You feel him trace his thumb over the bulge his cock is making in your throat. 

Okay yes that’s fantastic but also _you can’t breathe_. You smack weakly against his hip, like a wrestler trying to tap out of a fight. He _shushes_ you again, which is much hotter in this context but still not the response you’d been hoping for. Tears are painfully burning your eyes, and if he stays in your throat much longer, you are going to have to punch him in the stomach. 

He pulls out all at once, and you gasp desperately, head spinning, coughing wildly. You don’t have any time to recover, his hand goes from your neck to your hair--shocker--and he yanks you up and to the side. You collapse over the edge of the bed, still trying to suck in air around coughs. Every time you think he can’t possibly do something to make you feel better and also infinitely more sore, he manages to surprise you. 

Speaking of better and infinitely more sore. You’ve been coughing for a while, and weren’t paying attention to what he was doing. And now you realize he’s behind you. He must be, because you can feel something hard rubbing between your thighs, right up against your core. 

You stiffen in alarm--it feels _very large_ from this angle, and it didn’t exactly seem slim before. 

Kraven bends down over you, his chest pressing against your back. He’s very warm, and very solid, and his chest hair tickles in an odd way. It kind of reminds you of your mule, back home. It would probably be unwise to say that. It would definitely be unwise to really get into it so you could make a "jackass" pun. It probably wouldn’t even translate. 

He grabs your hair again, unsurprisingly. This time, however, his grip is right at your scalp; he pulls your head back and twists your neck. He has a grin on his face and a glint in his eye that makes you hot and cold all over, a shiver shaking its way up your spine. 

"How hard can you bear?" he murmurs into your ear. You wonder if he can feel the way it makes you clench, with the head of his cock pushing teasingly at your entrance. 

The old familiar flames of rebellion, never tamed for long, burn brighter in your chest. "Harder than you can give," you assure him, despite the fact that has yet to hold true, and you can already feel yourself having to stretch a bit just around the tip. 

One of Kraven’s eyebrows rises, the corner of his mouth twitching up in perfect asymmetry. "Ah," he says, looking far more pleased than you’d been hoping for. "Very well." 

You’re beginning to suspect you may have made a--AAAAAAAAA

Kraven shoves his whole length the full way into you, much as he had in your throat. A scream tears out of you, as if he’d just run you through--and in a sense, it feels like he has. You kick off the bed, hands pushing off the side to launch yourself forward, automatically. Unfortunately, his hand still very much has a grip on your hair, so you only get a few inches and you get your neck painfully jerked for your trouble. Kraven’s other hand grips your shoulder--oh wow his hand is big compared to your narrow, bony shoulder, calloused and rough and-- _now is not the time for you to be distracted because he has nice hands._

He follows your attempted escape, thrusting himself back in, hard. You scream again, and his hand leaves your hair to cover your mouth, muffling you remarkably effectively. You suspect he has a great deal of practice. 

He pulls out, just to thrust again, and again, slow but hard as a punch in the kidney. The tears that had been burning in your eyes are streaming down your cheeks now; you’ve collapsed down on the bed, your front half dangling off as you attempt to claw your way away despite how firm a hold he has on you. He thrusts one last time, then takes his hand off your mouth, leaving you to whimper. 

"This," he informs you calmly. "Is not nearly so hard as I can give. As I am a very kind and giving person, and you are inexperienced in such things, I will allow you a chance to change your answer." 

You briefly consider your options. 

"So," you begin, your voice hoarse. "I may have been… slightly hasty in my… previous assertion. Which is to say, that is--" 

Kraven doesn’t even have to thrust as hard as he had been, just a tiny jackhammering of his hips has you yelping. 

"Say it nicely," he taunts. "I know you are good with your words, _baba-ushki_." 

"Fuck you, I’ve never said anything nicely in my entire--" He thrusts again, and you yelp, trying and failing to scramble away. " _Not that hard!_ " you cry out. 

"So you are saying…?" he leads, and you grit your teeth. 

"I-can’t-take-it-as-hard-as-you-can-give!" It comes out in one panicked burst. This time, when Kraven thrusts, it’s slower, pulling out and then easing himself back in. It’s still an awful lot of _sensation_ , and your insides are still _screaming_ from his previous pounding, but it’s more manageable. 

He drops your face and shoulder, his hands going to your hips to pull you back against him. You let yourself flop over the side of the bed, face and arms on the floor. It’s not particularly comfortable. You don’t care. All of your focus is on the feel of him inside you, like hot iron. Every time you so much as twitch, it sets off a chain reaction of clenching that you’re trying to avoid. You try to force your body to relax, despite its intense protests. It feels _good_ , underneath the pain, and if you’re being perfectly honest, you don’t particularly mind the pain, but it is a lot to take. 

Er. No pun intended. 

Just as you’re adjusting to the slow, steady in and out, Kraven pushes nearly all the way in, and then lands a heavy smack on your ass, making you yelp and clench and jolt, trying to pull away only to get yanked back by his grip on your hip, nails digging into your skin. 

"You say you cannot take it hard, but you seem to enjoy it more this way," he observes, sounding amused. 

" _Fuck you,_ it’s not my fault you’re built like an ox," you snarl, breathless as if his dick is punching all the way to your damn lungs. 

"Too much for you too handle?" 

"You. Are _insufferable_ ," you growl, but it trails into a groan as he shifts his angle, raising your hips and lowering his, and grinds the head of his cock against something _delightful_ inside of you. 

"And you are much more pleasant when you cannot talk." 

You smirk, despite the severely compromised position you’re in, in every sense of the word. "Too bad you’ve only got the one dick then; I get to run my mo--aaaah!" Your snark turns into a cry as he grabs a fistfull of your hair--only possible thanks to how stupidly long it is, really--and pulls you back up. Just by your hair. Your knees are on the bed, your chest in the air, wanting to fall down but being held up by his grip on the end of your hair, tangled in his fist. He starts thrusting again, harder but not as hard as how he started, bouncing your ass against his hips in a steady pounding rhythm. 

"Ah, ah, ahn," is all you can manage, at first, but you know damn well what he’s trying to do. "I--can--still--talk--asshole--" you manage between thrusts and gritted teeth. 

He chuckles, darkly, a sound that sends a shudder through you. He yanks your hair roughly, pulling you up further, until you smack against his chest. You’re both on your knees, but he’s still significantly taller than you, your head coming just under his chin. He wraps an arm around your neck, essentially a headlock. Your breath catches in your chest-- _wooden bar of a spear against your neck_ \--the thrusts of his cock pull you back into the present swiftly. 

"I can fix that," he murmurs into your ear, voice low and husky and just the perfect level of threatening. He pulls your hair out of the way and begins biting along your neck as he thrusts, moving up to nip your hyper-sensitive ear. He figured out that weakness remarkably quickly, all things considered. The hand not locked around your neck drops to your clit and all you can really do is gasp and moan, fingers digging into the muscle of his forearm around your neck. 

And he’s so hard, every part of him, and so hot, every part of him, arm and chest and breath and cock. "Harder," you choke out, even though it’s already hard enough to hurt. But he does, everything harder, a painful pressure against your neck from his arm, smashing his hips against yours with each thrust. You’re probably screaming again, but you can’t really even register it, everything is tightness and tense and screaming, pure sensation. 

You scream a name--you can only hope it’s his, in retrospect--and come like a clap of thunder. Nearly literally, but you manage that little bit of restraint, because electrocuting someone is a good way to make sure they never fuck you again. He stills briefly, and you think you’ll get a chance to recover, but no. He’s shifting, dragging you to the side, so that this time, when he drops you, you flop onto the bed instead of over the edge. 

He twists both your arms behind your back; it doesn’t even occur to you to struggle. You’re still dazed, lost in a haze of explosive pleasure. But once he has your arms twisted behind your back, he starts pistoning into you again, using them as leverage to pull you back against him. You bounce almost listlessly at first, moaning into the sheets, hair sprawled over the side of your face in a mess. 

Kraven leans forward, but instead of grabbing your hair again, places his hand the side of your head, pressing you down into the sheets harder. It feels like he’s just letting his weight fall on you, too much of it on your head, but not enough to hurt unbearably. Letting gravity help with each thrust, and Maker, Maker, is this why his thighs are built like solid stone columns? 

True to his promise, you’ve lost your ability to form words entirely, focused on how he feels inside you, how he lights you up inside. How good it hurts when he thrusts too deep, stabbing against the deepest part of you, making you cry out, voice hoarse and cracking. 

It takes him too long to finish. 

He could have gone forever and you might not have complained. 

You’re not sure you can feel your legs, your shoulders are sweetest cramping pain, everything hurts, everything feels _so good_ , you want it to last forever, you need it to stop, you want to always feel this. Harder and harder, bruising pressure on your hips, yanking your arms in his grip, sharp blows raining intermittently down on your ass, painful but not nearly as hard as you know he’s capable of striking. 

" _Banar him, ma ghilana mir da’dinan._ " Spills from your lips, uncontrolled, and you wonder if anyone has ever heard you like this, filth in a holy language, one never meant for human ears, but it doesn’t _matter_ anymore, nothing you ever did matters and nothing you ever were matters and you’re lost and you’ll never not be lost and it _feels so good._

" _Vhenan,_ " you beg, spitting the lie of the word, just needing to feel it on your tongue. "Vhenan, vhenan, _harder, hurt me, make me feel, feel anything, make me alive, just tonight, let me be alive._ " And it’s safe because he can’t understand a word, slipping like silk off of your tongue, between your lips, praises you saved for someone else who never granted you a chance to sing them. 

You think he might have broken something, as he finishes, or maybe you broke it yourself, but when he stills, it just… doesn’t hurt anymore. Nothing hurts, even though everything should. 

You sink onto the bed as soon as you’re not supported by his strength, exhausted and satisfied and free. The lack of weight feels like flying, and when he sinks down into the bed next to you, you roll over to face him without thinking. 

He is a glorious sight, heaving chest and muscles shining with sweat. He’s beautiful, in a sense, skin darker than yours, though still not quite dark. Like a sculpture someone stretched skin over, all harsh lines and thick edges, peppered with dark hair. 

He turns to look at you, and you let yourself admire the shape of his jaw, the lines under his eye, the steely, dark grey of his eyes, you hadn’t even really noticed until you saw him this close. You watch him lazily, exhausted and giddy and light. 

"This may be the first time I have seen you not looking as if you expect the world itself is conspiring to kill you, _baba-ushki_ ," he informs you, voice low and quiet and gravely. 

You blink, slowly. 

"Even when no one is watching you, you look a hair’s width away from complete panic," he continues. "No matter how peaceful your surroundings, your body is tense as a coiled spring. You are the only one who can look at the most beautiful stars as if you want nothing more than to scream." 

Your cheeks flush, though you shouldn’t be surprised to realize he’s been watching you. He admitted as much when he suggested he was ’hunting’ you, something you’re still not particularly pleased with. You don’t want to think about it. 

"If no one had been watching me, you wouldn’t have seen." Pedantry, your defense when all others have failed you. "You fucking stalker," you add, though there’s no malice behind, just tired amusement and a bit of embarrassment. It might sound slightly affectionate, but that’s just because you’re tired. "Why watch me staring out a window?" 

"I enjoy it," he says simply, and your cheeks flush darker, just from the candor with which he says it. As if it’s simple, obvious. "And you must watch an animal in its natural environment to learn about it," he adds, completely ruining the whole thing. You glare, and he laughs. "There she is!" 

"Shut up," you grumble. 

"Ah, to clarify, I am not implying you are _more animal_ than I or anyone else--" 

"Right, right," you say, cutting him off. "All men are animals, weird world views about predator and prey, got it." Just because he thinks it’s normal doesn’t make it normal, but at least it’s not a weird elf fetish thing. You shift closer, starting to snuggle against his arm, then stop abruptly. You sit up, rubbing your face, as if waking up, trying to shake some sense into yourself. This is not exactly a cuddling situation. You’d tried to stab him, a lot, set him on fire a little, fought and yelled and screamed and then let him fuck you senseless. It’s a bitch of a situation, but definitely not one that traditionally calls for cuddling. 

"I should… go," you announce, more to yourself than him. You need time to sort this out. 

"Do you want to?" comes his reply. 

You glance over at him. He cuts an inviting figure, lounging half-nude on the bed. He’d pulled his leggings back up over his dick at some point, but he’s all skin and hair and muscles and you can just imagine how nice it would feel. You look away, pointedly, cheeks heating up again. 

"...No," you admit, and the word no more leaves your lips than he’s reached out and grabbed your arm. He doesn’t really even have to yank, he just pulls and you collapse into him, no real fight left, not when it’s what you want. 

"Now you are trapped," he announces, despite the fact you’re half on top of him. "No escape." 

You laugh. You can’t help it. 

He feels as warm as you’d knew he would be. The bed is very comfortable, and so is he. You let your body relax, pressing up against him, stretching against the length of him like a cat in a sunbeam. Your eyes flutter closed, but you can’t sleep-- 

Ah… 

Yes… You can. He can’t feel your magic and wouldn’t care even if he could. A lifetime of hiding, ended. It almost feels shocking, you hadn’t quite grasped it before, somehow. Too out of your own mind to really consider it. 

You can relax. About that, at least, you can seriously just… fucking relax. 

You nuzzle your face against his shoulder. He makes a wonderful pillow. 

You sleep.


End file.
